On February 7, 2014, I had coffee with a good friend. We were in that part of the conversation where we offer each other a little self improvement ass kicking, as you can only do with really good girl friends. “Will you write the fucking book already!” she said. Ugh – for 25 years I have been talking about this book. I don’t know what it is about or who the characters are or even what genre it is, but I know it must be written. I guess she got tired of hearing me bitch about my busy schedule, work, family, blah blah blah.
That night I had dinner out, a little wine of course. At 10:00 p.m., I powered up my tablet (note to self – never write on a tablet!) and sat down with a goal of writing a single sentence. I felt like a pianist preparing to play Bach…. BUM, BUM, BUM, BUM. That probably isn’t coming across, but my Dad would have loved the metaphor.
I had no first words, no characters, no plot, no setting, no ideas, but I really wanted to prove something to my girlfriend! And then it started coming – beach houses, switched keys, and a super-hot man with a mild anxiety disorder. At 2:00 a.m. I had 2,000 words and the pace wouldn’t slow. Thanks to a big snow, I kept that pace for six days. My car battery died. I forced a shower every other day. My calorie intake went from about 3,000 a day to 700. On the fourth day I had blood work because something certainly must have been wrong!
I. Could. Not. Stop. Writing.
I was hooked.